McCarthyism

Yesterday, at least in the Boston area, was picture-perfect. Sunny skies, temps around 78, the city streets bulging with slightly buzzed college chicks. A game at Fenway? One that wasn’t even scheduled? Hell, I look at it as a bonus. Something to keep my mind out of the gutter and my eyes off the women for a couple hours. Yes, a win would have been nice, but I just chalk it up to another one of those maddening Sox-encounter-rookie-pitcher-who-promptly-seals-their-colons moments and move along. Senator McCarthy was spectacular, and we must tip our hats. ::Tips hat:: Okay, now. A couple thoughts:

1. Schilling, I firmly believe, will be fine when it matters most. Dude has a flair for the dramatic and as Oliver Stone-ish as it may sound, I’m not above believing he’s been holding off “flipping the switch” until this weekend’s series against the Yankees. And by “flipping the switch” I mean, of course, from “Help, Aubrey Huff is chewing my ass” mode to “Take one of these home to your sister, Gary Sheffield!” mode.

2. A day without Damon is like a day without sunshine.

3. I don’t fear the White Sox where the playoffs are concerned.

4. Kelly the Fenway Ball Girl deserves her own reality TV show on NESN. Christ, if they can dedicate 40 broadcast hours per week to the Silly Fisherman, they could certainly afford to give Kelly the love. Wouldn’t even need that much. No writing staff, for sure. They’d just show Kelly waking up, having breakfast, going to classes, playing Texas Hold ‘em with Wally, trying on halter tops, starting slumber party pillow fights, holding up banks along the South Shore. Stuff like that. Hell, I’d even offer to hold the camera. I mean, it’s not like I’m not already following her every move, keeping ten steps behind in my trenchcoat with binoculars and digicam at the ready. Might as well try to make some coin off it. Heh, heh. Naw, I’m just kidding. Especially that part about the stalking. Heh.

Tonight, another PPP [Potential Playoff Partner] comes to town, in the form of the Angels. In Wakey we trust, tonight at seven. Holla.